


oh darling, please be mine

by NIQtraust



Series: and she is stronger, than he's ever been [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Coming of Age, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eskel trying to be a wingman, F/M, I don't know if any archive warnings apply here, Jaskier doesn't show up, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Trans Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, also, don't pressure me to include him he's not part of this, featuring:, internalised transphobia (later on), lots of anger, please let me know if they do, young!Eskel, young!Geralt, young!witcher!Yennefer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NIQtraust/pseuds/NIQtraust
Summary: NOT ABANDONED. Just... delayed. I'm procrastinating. Dealing with schoolwork and I want to write other things right now.Yette is seven when he's brought to Kaer Morhen to become a witcher. He's seven when he meets someone who makes the anger rise in his throat and heightens his desire to prove himself.Geralt is eight when another new boy arrives at Kaer Morhen, sporting long black hair, curious purple eyes, and owning nothing but frustration at the world and a deep-set desire to prove himself. Naturally, Geralt gets tied up in it all.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: and she is stronger, than he's ever been [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904047
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	oh darling, please be mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@sadie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40sadie).



> https://aminoapps.com/c/thewitchernetflix/page/user/sadie/o3d3_ponUJfD6R1VWPebvX8MQ5QV6JxWYL4  
> This lovely person gave me the idea for this fic and has been encouraging me to continue writing it. The title and Yennefer's childhood name were their suggestions. The former is from Fair by The Amazing Devil. This lovely person in the process of setting up an ao3 account, so when they do, I'll credit them that way instead.
> 
> Welcome! This is going to be part of a two-part series that will be following the story of young!witcher!trans!Yennefer and Geralt, who's going to be about the same except younger.  
> I myself am under the transgender umbrella (I'm genderfluid, thought I was trans ftm for some time). However, I am not a trans woman. If I get anything grossly wrong or am accidentally transphobic when it is not intended, please please please let me know!
> 
> Updates will occur whenever I finish a chapter. Nothing is prewritten, only plotted out. Expect roughly 1 a week, but don't get mad when I fail to stick to that.

The mountains towered above the keep, rising high on either side of it. A forest surrounded three sides of the keep, daring to venture up the slopes of the mountains as well. The stones were in good repair, and the sounds of laughter and the clashing of blades echoed off of the mountain walls. Yette could hear them from where he sat, motionless, on his captor’s horse. Despite the warmth in the air, Yette still felt a chill. He wrapped himself a little tighter in his cloak and hunched over, both out of insolence and in an attempt to keep a little warmer.

Maybe ‘captor’ was the wrong word. The witcher that had taken him away from his family had been nothing but kind so far. But then again, maybe ‘captor’ was the right word. Yette knew that he wasn’t going back. Good. He didn’t want to.

They hadn’t wanted him there at the farm. They probably wouldn’t want him here, either, but at least he probably wouldn’t be beaten quite so often here. What other boys he had seen so far, which was a total of two, had looked worn out and strong, but not beaten. Toughened up, but not lashed with mindless cruelty.

As he and the witcher seated behind him rode along the trail into the courtyard before the keep, the two boys rode ahead to alert the others of their arrival. A rough hand knocked Yette’s hood down.

“Hey!” The witcher behind him merely returned his hand to the reins.

“Hood down. Let them see you, boy.”

“I have a name, you know,” Yette grumbled. The witcher behind him gave an amused snort. Yette huffed and crossed his arms. He hadn’t told anyone yet, least of all his rough travel companion. Maybe this was a dream. You weren’t supposed to give out your name in dreams, right? If you did, then maybe you’d never go home. Yette didn’t want to go home, but he also didn’t want to stay here.

They reached the courtyard. The witcher behind him dismounted with practised ease. Yette slid down with a little more difficulty, stumbling when his feet hit the ground. His ankle throbbed for a moment, but he ignored it and lifted his chin proudly. This wasn’t the place to show fear. 

One of the boys, older than Yette but still young, came over to take care of stabling the horse. Yette’s escort/captor placed one hand on his shoulder and marched him inside. Yette found himself being brought to a large hall that housed a sizeable hearth and a long dining table, rough-hewn benches on either side. He was pushed towards the end of one of the benches.

“Sit.” Yette sat, fiddling with the edge of his cloak. He scuffed his boots along the floor, watching as he swung his legs. He heard the witcher who had brought him here move away, then murmured conversation.

“We’ll have to…”

“Strong, but…”

“Small…”

“Bit of decent training and…”

“You. Boy. What’s your name?” An older witcher stood in front of him now, one with grey hair that still housed patches of brown. Yette scowled at him and kept swinging his legs.

“Boy. Insolence isn’t going to let you go home.”

“I don’t wanna go home.” A pause.

“Very well, then.” The older witcher crouched down in front of Yette, looking up at him. He clasped his hands together where they hung loosely before his legs. “We do need a name, though, or you get assigned one. Marisis here isn’t the most creative, but we’ll find something.” He sounded amused, almost teasing, but Yette also saw that he was serious. The older witcher waited for an answer. Yette scowled harder.

“Yette,” he grumbled. “Of Vengerburg. Do I get to ask a question, too?” The older witcher glanced over at one of his compatriots, who had scribbled down Yette’s answer before moving away.

“Yes,” he decided. Yette thought over his options quickly. He didn’t much care who his captors were. He did, however, care about why he had been brought here.

“What is this place and why am I here?” To his credit, the older witcher didn’t chastise Yette for asking two questions in place of one. Yette decided that he liked him already. Back home, such a feat might have earned him a beating, if he was even listened to in the first place. 

“This keep is Kaer Morhen,” he replied, tone fully serious again. “The School of the Wolf. Marisis here saved your father’s life years back, and in return, claimed the Law of Surprise. You were that Surpr-”

“I know how the Law of Surprise works,” Yette cut in. The older witcher inclined his head, allowing the interruption. Suddenly, Yette wondered if he was in a grace period. That sent a chill of dread down his spine. If he was, then what was life going to be like when it ended? Would he have been better off staying on the farm?

The older witcher’s eyes narrowed slightly. He continued. “You were that Surprise. Marisis returned to Vengerburg to fetch you and bring you here.”

“I’m to be made into a witcher,” Yette guessed tonelessly. “I don’t want to be one.” Possibly not the wisest thing to say in a keep full of them, but he didn’t care. He wanted to be away from the farm, but he didn’t want to become a mutant. The older witcher who was crouching in front of him gave a small shrug and got to his feet.

“The choice isn’t yours, boy. Just as it wasn’t any of ours.” He made a small gesture towards his brethren. Yette wrapped his arms around himself.

“And if I refuse?” The older witcher shrugged again, seemingly unconcerned.

“Let’s see if you survive to that point first.”

The next day saw Yette wearing the same clothing as the rest of the trainees- dull greys and browns, but it was durable and warm. Even in the late spring, the keep was cold. Outside was better. There was enough of a breeze to keep cool, but it didn’t penetrate through his clothing and chill him.

Yette stood with some of the other boys who were new and about his age. He scowled at them whenever they decided to stare at him. His back ached, but he ignored it. His spine stood straight, unlike what he had been told the village midwife had feared for him, but the pain he felt in it never truly faded. 

All of them held a bow. A couple of the other boys knew how to use it. Yette didn’t. He was strong, thanks to having been put to work on the farm as soon as he was able. But it wasn’t like he had received any sort of weapons training.

“Now then,” their instructor said. Yette already didn’t like him. It was rash to rush into judgements like that, he knew, but the black-haired witcher with eyes that were black even in daylight irritated him. He had seen him around the keep at mealtime the previous day, and he had been running through archery yesterday as well.

He thought that witchers were supposed to have golden eyes, was all. This witcher didn’t. He didn’t know what that meant other than it irritated him. 

Yette was shown through the motions of stringing a bow, then of nocking an arrow. He mentally scoffed. He could have done this without the help of whoever his black-eyed instructor was. 

The shooting, however, raised some difficulties. Yette found he could string the bow easily enough. He could nock his arrow. He lacked the back and arm muscles to draw the bow. Drawing the bowstring back halfway was almost more than he could handle. His fingers slipped, and he let go of both arrow and string by accident.

The arrow clattered against the cobblestones a couple of paces in front of him. Yette was panting, both out of fear and out of exertion. His instructor lifted those black eyes to his own purple ones. The black-eyed witcher had his hands clasped behind his back. Like the rest, he wore disappointment, and not anger, on his features. Yette wanted to scream, or maybe to run. 

The black-eyed witcher paced closer to him and wrapped a hand around the bow in Yette’s unresisting hands. For all his nerves, Yette still lifted his chin. He knew that his fear showed in his eyes. He knew that with the uncanny senses that witchers had, his instructor could probably smell it, too.

“You were not given permission to fire, recruit,” the black-eyed witcher said calmly. He spoke quietly but clearly, intending the words primarily for Yette’s ears. He knew that the rest of the trainees would be listening in, though. Especially the ones standing on either side of him.

“Be grateful that no one was standing on the range. Your shot was pitiful, but it could have caused some damage.” Yette had the bow yanked from his hands. “Be more careful, boy.” The weapon was shoved towards him again. He fumbled to take it, fuming silently.

The black-eyed witcher paced down to the end of the line of boys again, examining each one’s stance and posture. “Fire,” was his calm order. Yette drew his bow late, limbs shaking with the effort. The arrow did not even go three-quarters of the distance that his compatriots managed. He could feel the black-eyed witcher’s eyes on him in particular as he nocked another arrow. This time, when he fired, it went further. His brethren were still hitting the target.

Each of the recruits went at their own pace, getting used to the bow that they held in their hands and becoming familiar with the motions of nocking, drawing, and releasing. Yette went slower than the rest, the only exception being one boy who simply did not care. He shot two lazily fired arrows, then stopped. The black-eyed witcher went over to deal with him. A second witcher, one Yette recognised as the one who had escorted him here, stepped into place at one end of the line in order to keep an eye on the recruits.

The sun was well past its zenith by the time a break was called for. The recruits were allowed to return to the keep for a midday meal. Yette’s arms were absolutely aching, and his back was contorting with pain as well. He scowled, and resolved to keep that scowl there. He wasn’t weak because of the pain. He could do just as well as the others, if not better. They had a leg up, was all.

He left his bow behind and followed the rest of the group inside. They found their places at the long table in the room Yette had heard dubbed as the Grand Hall. It didn’t seem so grand to him. He supposed it was only called that because of its size.

He took a seat towards the edge of his group, sullen and withdrawn. Yette realised his mistake a moment too late. By then, a gaggle of boys ranging from just barely older than him to a couple of years older came in. One of them had puzzling green eyes and curly golden-brown hair that hung to just around his ears, like he was trying to grow it out but wasn’t quite succeeding. Yette’s own hair was quite long, already brushing just below his shoulders. He hadn’t had a reason to cut it, and his parents had never cared enough to do it for him.

But that wasn’t the boy that took the seat beside Yette and jostled him. Another boy did, this one with light brown eyes and short, darker hair. His elbow knocked against Yette’s eyes as he took his seat, chatting animatedly with the first boy.

“Watch it,” Yette hissed as he was jostled. The darker haired boy paused in their conversation and looked over to him, his apology written on his features.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Yette scowled, but gave a little nod in acknowledgement. He turned back to his meal. He heard the two slightly older boys resume their conversation, more quietly this time. That shouldn’t have made any difference to whether or not Yette could hear them, but thanks to the general hum of voices around him, he couldn’t pick out the individual words that the other boys were saying. He scowled down at his plate again, only to have his arm nudged again. Intentionally this time.

Yette looked up from the tasteless food and moved his eyes to the dark-haired boy sitting on his right. “If you keep scowling, your face is going to get stuck like that,” he commented passively. It didn’t sound as if he was trying to provoke a fight. That made Yette scowl all the harder.

“Maybe it’ll make you leave me alone,” he grumbled. The boy with the curly golden-brown hair rested his elbows on the table and leaned over across his friend to chime in.

“I doubt it,” he said. “Drere, he’s one of our instructors, has a face that’s stuck in a permanent scowl. I’ve never seen any of them get as mobbed by new recruits as he does.” The first boy’s lips twitched a little in thought.

“He’s in charge of the library, though,” he pointed out. Yette prodded at the bowl of stew in front of him with his spoon, listening but trying to look disinterested. “Everyone mobs him. Even Vesemir.” Yette abandoned his efforts and looked up curiously.

“Who’s Vesemir?” He asked. The boy with golden-brown curls tipped his head slightly in question.

“How do you not know who Vesemir is?” Yette stabbed at his stew, scowling again. The dark-haired boy laid a hand on his friend’s forearm.

“Lay off him, Geralt. He’s new.” Geralt huffed, then pointed discreetly to an older witcher. “That’s Vesemir. He runs this place. He’s nice enough as long as you don’t get on his bad side.” Yette looked in the direction Geralt had pointed. His finger led to a witcher with silver hair that hosted brown patches, betraying his age. Yette didn’t know how long witchers lived for, but it had to be for a long time. Like sorcerers.

Vesemir was the witcher who had worked Yette’s name out of him. Yette scowled at the older witcher, who was speaking calmly with his comrades. Yette stabbed at his stew again and lifted a spoonful to his mouth.

“Who’s the one teaching archery?” He asked as casually as he could, seeing that the two boys seated to his right had gone back to their own meals and discussion. The darker haired one looked over again.

“You mean Remus?” Yette shrugged, licking the last bit of stew off of his spoon.

“I don’t know. The one with the black eyes and the beard.”

“Yeah. Remus.” Was Geralt’s contribution. “Catch up, Eskel. There’s only one of them teaching archery this week.” Eskel, the dark-haired boy, turned to frown at his friend.

“Doesn’t Haldwund teach archery as well?” Geralt huffed lightly, but he only sounded annoyed, not angry. 

“Yeah, but not this week.” Geralt looked over to where the majority of the instructors were seated, the black-eyed witcher, Remus, amongst them. “He got injured on a hunt and Vesemir wants him to recover.” Eskel frowned.

“How hard is it to stand and tell seven-year-olds to fire?” Geralt shrugged again.

“He injured his leg. And, I dunno, about as hard as eight-year-olds.” Yette snorted, amused despite himself. Geralt shot him a cheeky grin. Yette huffed and returned to his stew.

It only got harder from there. Most of the time, Eskel and Geralt were off doing their own training or having their own fun. They’d introduced themselves to Yette and had been the first to do so, but he wasn’t about to kid himself that they were his friends. Those two had each other. He was the outcast.

Maybe that should have made him sad. Maybe that should have made him want to curl up on himself and die, like everyone thought he should. But it didn’t. It only made the fire burning in his breast grow hotter with resentment.

Several weeks later, Yette was out on the archery range in the evening, bow in hand. Technically speaking, he probably wasn’t supposed to be out here alone at this time. But it wasn’t like he was the only one. A couple of other boys, all of them older than him, were training with swords on the other side of the courtyard. They were supervised by one of the witchers, who was probably also keeping an eye on Yette.

As the weeks had progressed, Yette had started to improve with the bow. It wasn’t his true calling, but it would have to do. He was utterly weak with the sword, which unfortunately was the School of the Wolf’s chosen weapon. Yette was envious of the other, older recruits, envious of how they could make steel and their bodies dance for them.

So he stuck with the bow and let his hatred out that way. He was only seven. The most hatred he should be feeling was against another kid taking the wooden stick he was using as a sword in a pretend game of knights, or something. He shouldn’t be here.

Yette angrily let another arrow fly. It slammed into the tree trunk he was aiming for. He nocked another but didn’t turn around, hearing soft footsteps coming up behind him. A hand grabbed his shoulder before he could release the next arrow. Yette spun around, furious.

“The hell do you think you’re- oh.” He was looking at Eskel. The dark-haired boy gave him a small, wary smile.

“You looked a little lonely,” he commented. Yette glared at him. He wasn’t. Not at all. He could have made friends if he’d wanted to. He just hadn’t, was all. Yeah. Yeah, that was right. He was  _ choosing _ to be lonely. No one was casting him out and forcing him to be. Who cared if the other boys didn’t like him? Yette didn’t like them much either.

“Go away,” he grumbled. Eskel looked unperturbed. Instead, he slung a bow off of his shoulder. Yette saw a quiver already strapped to his leg. “I don’t want you here.”

Eskel moved over several paces down on the range. “I’m allowed to be here, too,” he pointed out. “I won’t bother you if you don’t want.” It was probably a question, but Yette ignored it anyways, scowling all the harder as he released his arrow. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eskel shrug and start to nock his own arrow.

Yette kept firing, fingers going raw and legs starting to go numb from being locked in place for so long. If it wasn’t for the arm guard he wore on his left arm, the string would have caused injury to his forearm by now. As it was, his left hand was still cramping from clutching the bow.

He felt a light tap on his shoulder. A glance to the side told him Eskel was there again, a pace away. Yette glared at him. He nocked yet another arrow. The string fit easily in the notch and the fletching nearly cut his fingers. Yette released it, feeling the skin of his fingers split as the fletching whipped by them. Eskel winced.

“What?” Yette demanded, lowering the bow and turning to glower directly at the older boy.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Am not.”

“Are too! You shouldn’t be cutting your fingers open! Besides, your stance is all wrong.”

Yette scoffed. “Oh, and are you some great archery master?” Eskel had the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Well, no, but I have been doing this for a year longer than you. I know a little!” Yette glared at him, then turned sulkily back to his target. He lifted the bow again and reached for his next arrow.

“I don’t need your help.”

“But you do. You’re lousy with a sword, injuring your hand isn’t going to make that any better.” Cheeks hot, Yette spun back around.

“What did you just say?”

“You’re lousy with a sword.” Eskel blinked at him. “Yette, everyone knows it. Geralt could probably-”

“NO!” Yette’s shout caused the other trainees to look over in confusion. The instructor who had been with them made a gesture for them to pause in their practice, then began striding over to the archery range with quick, long steps.

Yette threw his bow down at Eskel’s feet. “I don’t need your help!”

“What’s going on here?” The witcher demanded, as if he and his stupid enhanced hearing didn’t already know. Yette scowled at him, ashamed of the angry tears that he could feel pricking at his eyes.

“Nothing!” He turned and ran. Eskel reached for him, but Yette shoved past the older boy and ran for the keep. He didn’t care. Behind him, he could hear the witcher and Eskel starting to converse.

Yette barreled down one hallway, nearly crashing into one of the older boys, who shoved him angrily. Yette was pushed into the wall of the hallway, but just hissed, of all things, and kept running. He took a sharp turn, catching himself from slamming into the wall again with his hands, then kept running. By now, he could feel that his eyes were full of tears and were spilling over. The wetness ran hotly down his cheeks. He could hardly see.

He fumbled to a stop outside the door to the dormitory, landing heavily against it, but not as heavily as he could have. He shoved it open and stumbled angrily inside. Some of the other boys, mostly the ones in his year, were already curled up and fast asleep. It was late and thanks to the keep’s stupid rules, they all had to be up early. Yette flounced onto his bed and sat there, crossing his arms and legs tightly. He stared at the floor for a moment, glowering at it. The stone didn’t respond, and that only made him angrier.

Yette turned around and shoved his face into the pillow, screaming. He stayed there another minute once his lungs had given out. His anger slowly cooled and gave way to wracking sobs. Yette curled up around himself on the bed, not bothering to go under the covers. He could feel the eyes of some of the boys on him, but he didn’t care. People had been staring at him all his life like he was helpless. He didn’t care anymore.

In the morning, Yette was roughly shaken awake by another of the boys in his year. In the dormitory, the boys who were ages seven to nine lived there. Older recruits and the boys who had gone through the Trials and survived, or were currently going through the Trials, got their own rooms elsewhere in the keep. Yette wanted his own room. He didn’t care about the stares, but they were annoying. He wanted space. He wanted it so much that it hurt.

“C’mon, Yette,” whispered Logro. “We’re gonna be late.” Yette scowled at him, sore from having spent the night with his shoulder crushed under him and mostly in the fetal position.

“I don’t want to.” Logro shook him again.

“If you don’t get up, Master Zyrtas is gonna come for you.” Yette snorted.

“Good. Let him. I’m not going anywhere.” To prove it, he pulled his knees back to his chest and wrapped himself into a tight ball. His fingers hurt, he realised. He’d cut them a little last night, and though they’d hardly bled, they still stung and ached.

Logro started trying to pry him out of bed using brute strength. Given that he was seven, like Yette, it didn’t accomplish much. Yette extended one leg, shifted a little, and kicked him off. Logro glared at her.

“Fine then. Get in trouble. See if I care.” He stomped off to the Grand Hall. Yette huffed and curled tighter around himself. He just wanted to go home already. No, not home. Not back to the farm. But away from here. Far, far away.

A couple of minutes later, another presence entered the room. Yette had only been in Kaer Morhen for a couple of weeks, but he had already picked up on how to tell when a witcher had entered the room. For one thing, it was usually silent. But shadows and a peculiar sixth sense could tell a person a lot. Or so Yette’s instructors claimed. He glowered every time he caught himself using their various teachings and hearing their voices in his head, but he couldn’t deny that they knew what they were talking about.

“Yette,” came Master Zyrtas’s deep voice. Soft footsteps approached the bed. Yette cracked his eyes open. Master Zyrtas stood a pace away beside the bed. He had black hair streaked with silver that while thick, was sharply contained on his head. He had a neatly trimmed and pointy beard, also streaked with silver. His eyes were golden, as they should be,  _ Remus _ . He wore black, as several of the witchers did. He also wore a cloak, fastened at his shoulders with a small, dark link of metal chain across his throat. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he stood straight.

Yette scowled at him. “I’m not getting up. Eskel probably told you guys everything, didn’t he? I’m useless. Just let me go.” He flopped over so that he was on his stomach, chin resting on his wrists by the pillow. Master Zyrtas made no move to touch him. The senior witcher was one of the quieter ones. Yette usually liked him, despite how afraid of him most of the other recruits were. Maybe that was why he liked him.

“That is not an option,” came the soft and almost musical voice of Master Zyrtas. “I will see you at training.”

“No.” Yette lifted his head again after a moment, but Master Zyrtas had already left, his soft footsteps gone. Yette watched as he shut the door quietly behind him. “No,” he repeated to himself after another minute or two, more quietly this time.

In the end, though, Yette did get up. He didn’t have much of a choice. He dragged himself through getting dressed and scrubbing his hands and face. The fingers on his right hand stung, but he ignored it. He tried not to pick at the scabs that had been forming there. Those were good.

Today was focused on sword fighting again, much to his displeasure. Yette reluctantly took the practice sword he was to use and prepared himself for hours upon hours of having his guard passed and bruises formed on his body. He hated swords. All they ever brought him was pain and embarrassment.

Today was no different. Yette was against another seven-year-old, but the boy knew what he was doing fairly well. Yette was thrown down onto the ground and prodded at too many times for his liking. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. He could feel his eyes watering with frustration. Still, he hefted his practice sword and tried to get a few solid swings in. The first one was parried, the second just barely dodged. Yette’s third blow was a thrust and brushed against the boy’s arm. By the fourth swing, Yette was ready to give up.

One of the blows was returned, it didn’t really matter which one. Yette was hit straight in the ribs with the wooden practice sword. He groaned, sank to one knee, and tried to drop his own sword. The boy he was sparring with looked anxious.

“No, no!” He whispered quickly, looking around for their instructor. “No, get up. Get up, please. We have to keep going.” Yette glared at him, but shoved himself back to his feet and attacked again, almost snarling. Yette swung again. This time, his blade swung into the other boy’s with a loud ‘crack!’. Yette swung again, but it was clear that the boy had been going easy on him. He dodged nimbly and parried easily, while Yette was slowly losing control.

“Enough!” There was a hand gripping his sword wrist firmly, and another gripping his opponent’s offhand. Yette looked up sullenly at his instructor. He was another of the more senior witchers, one of the ones who were willing to give up the Path for a couple of years at a time in order to train the new boys. According to what little gossip Yette heard, this was his last year before he went back to hunting. Yette didn’t much care. It didn’t bother him.

“Yette. Towson. Lower your swords.” He waited for them to comply before continuing. “Towson, practise on the dummies. I’ll be with you shortly. Yette, with me.” Towson gave Yette a pitying look before he walked off to the straw practise dummies. 

Agrot, like Master Zyrtas, was from Kaedwen. He was the one running the sparring sessions today. He clasped his hands behind his back in that condescending manner that all of the witchers had with the trainees. Yette had to walk quickly and occasionally jog a step in order to keep up with Agrot’s long stride. 

They stopped to observe some practice between older boys who already had their golden eyes. Yette scowled at them, but they paid him little mind. They were focused on their swordplay, and Yette watched with envy as their blades and bodies danced around each other easily.

Then a hand was dropped onto his shoulder and he was led off. “Yette,” Agrot said after another minute of slow walking. “What has gotten into you? You have been angry all day, and while usually, I would not point out such a thing, it has been rubbing off poorly on the others.” Yette stopped walking and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He scowled. 

“Is that the only reason you’re worried? Because I might be  _ hurting _ the  _ other recruits _ ?” His voice was mocking, and the look in Agrot’s eyes told him to stop talking, but he found he didn’t want to. “I know I’m always going to be second best, but maybe if you actually gave half a damn and  _ helped _ me, I would stand a chance!” His voice was starting to choke up with more sobs halfway through. Agrot looked vaguely uncomfortable.

He looked around, then his gaze landed on one of the nearby recruits. He was an eight-year-old. How did Yette know? Because he was one of the last people Yette wanted to see. “You. Boy.” The dark-haired boy disengaged from his partner and turned around. 

“Witcher Agrot?” Titles for the witchers were only used by the recruits. Master Zyrtas was an exception. He oversaw the entirety of training the next generation of witchers, both the Trials and the training before and after. The more senior Wolves still respected him greatly, and would sometimes use his title.

Agrot looked to the boy who had approached. “I have to make sure Rurli and Uvorn don’t kill each other.” Yette was pushed a step forwards by a rough but not unkind shove to his back. “Keep an eye on him. Teach him some things, if you want. He’s lousy, so don’t try anything fancy.” Eskel held his practise sword steadily by his side. The youngest groups didn’t get to practise with live steel. Not yet, at least.

“Of course, Witcher,” Eskel said politely. He glanced nervously at Yette.

“And you, uh, Hermann, or whatever your name is. Go work with Towson.” Witcher Agrot walked away then, leaving just the three of them. Hermann looked anxiously at Yette and his tears, then backed away.

“Towson’s by the dummies,” Yette mumbled. Hermann shot him a grateful look and took off. Eskel adjusted his grip on his sword, probably out of nerves.

“Right, then,” he said. “Ready?”

“No,” was Yette’s reply. Eskel gave a small shrug, as if that sounded perfectly reasonable to him. Yette hated him for it. He glared a little more, then gave one last sniffle, wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, and got into his stance. Eskel’s face twisted a little in thought. Using his practise sword, he nudged Yette’s legs further apart and to a different spot. Yette glared at him, but he only gave her that little shrug again.

“You’re going to overbalance if you stand like that,” he said. Yette scowled, but didn’t complain. Eskel held his sword up in front of up.

“Ready?” Yette kept his scowl in place but gave a jerky nod.

Eskel was being a lot nicer than Towson had been. Yette immediately hated it. For one thing, he was actually able to get hits in against Eskel, and his knees didn’t ache from leaning in his bad stance. Eskel took it more slowly, parrying clearly and easily, but also quietly pointing out openings in both of their guards.

“Stop being so nice,” Yette grumbled. Eskel lunged forwards and lightly tapped the point of his sword against Yette’s unprotected ribs. Yette scowled again. That was another thing. He wasn’t trying to wallop him the way his previous sparring partners had been.

“Here,” he murmured, then withdrew back into his starting position. “And no. I won’t. Learning the harsh way clearly wasn’t working for you.” Yette tried to kick him, but he wasn’t standing close enough to do any more than knock the tip of his boot against Eskel’s shin. 

“Where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway?” Yette asked a couple of minutes later. Eskel was good, really good. He was using some of the techniques taught to the older boys as well. Yette had seen the drills that the older boys went through, and some of those moves definitely made an appearance in Eskel’s reservoir.

He blocked another one of Yette’s half-hearted blows to his ribs, then sidestepped away. He lowered his sword and gestured for Yette to do the same. Yette complied.

“Geralt’s good,” Eskel explained. “Really good. He’s a natural. Vesemir bumped him up part of a year. He trains swords with the older boys. Usually just a year or two ahead of the rest of us eight-year-olds, but sometimes with the boys about to go through their first Trial.” Yette made a small, impressed sound. Eskel must have heard it, because his face split into a grin. “I know right?”

Then he lifted his sword again. “Ready?” Yette shrugged, not wanting to seem too pleased. He had started to enjoy himself, actually, even if he was never going to admit it. Not ending up with bruised ribs and limbs and then being thrown into the earth tended to have that effect on people.

“Ready,” Yette confirmed, a grin tugging at his lips.

Another week went by with little improvement. Yette’s fingers still bled every time he fired an arrow. The original wounds from that one crazy session were continuously getting reopened. The witchers were trying to get salve on his fingers and for Yette to let them heal, but Yette wasn’t having any of it. He liked the pain. It took his mind off the pain in his spine, and more importantly, the pain in his head.

He was still the runt of the litter. Even with that session of Eskel trying to help him, he wasn’t improving much with a blade. Yette just grit his teeth and got through each day. It wasn’t like there was anything better for him to do. He either suffered through the training, or he turned around and went home. Anywhere was better than home. He hoped. Kaer Morhen had yet to endear itself to him.

Yette let another arrow fly, not even wincing as the raw skin of his fingers was torn through by the fletching. His right hand was a painful mess, which wasn’t helping his swordplay. He heard footsteps approaching behind him. Yette turned around, ready to snap at whoever was disturbing his midnight escape to the archery range, but it was a witcher, not a recruit. So he swallowed, kept his mouth shut, and nocked another arrow. 

There was rain falling, but it wasn’t heavy. It was more than misting, but it wasn’t overly bothersome. Yette was damp, not soaked. The bow was fine.

The witcher beside him studied his form for a moment, then stopped him with an iron hand to his firing arm. “Boy.” Yette tried to shake him off, but to no avail. The boy turned his head and found himself looking into the black pits that were Remus’s eyes. “Do it correctly, or not at all.”

Yette hesitated for a second, ready to throw down his bow and stomp off, but that would mean accepting defeat. He had never been shy a day in his life. He wasn’t ready to give up so easily. Instead, he swallowed a little of his pride and allowed his grip to loosen a little, showing that he was listening. Remus sounded pleased.

“Adjust your stance,” he said softly before demonstrating. Yette reluctantly went through with it, but most of his reluctance was feigned. He did like archery, and despite his pride, being able to fire an arrow without causing his fingers to bleed over the fletching- and therefore throw off his aim- would be nice.

“Now, hold the bowstring a little looser. You’re guiding it, not forcing it. Draw it smoothly.” Yette worked his way slowly through the murmured instructions, Remus’s arms adjusting him as needed. Yette held the bow in almost full draw, his whole upper body aching. It wasn’t as bad as it had been that first day, though. He had gained some muscle since then.

“When you release, just let go. Turn the arrow just so. Your fingers shouldn’t be ripped by the fletching.” Yette had to allow the string to relax some in order to accomplish that. He redid the nocking of the arrow in order to turn where the fletching was. Remus gave a soft hum of approval.

Yette released the arrow. It flew true to his target, which had been the trunk of a nearby tree. Remus looked thoughtful. “And again,” the witcher said softly.

The next morning, the fingers on Yette’s right hand were still injured. They hadn’t healed miraculously overnight. But they could have been reinjured worse the previous night, he supposed. He dragged himself out of bed and dressed quickly. 

They were running The Trail today, although it was unofficially nicknamed ‘The Killer’ by those who ran it. Once he had run it once, Yette had understood why it was called that.

He joined the group of other boys shivering in the crisp morning air. They were in the mountains, which was helping with the humidity. It contributed to the cold, though. Yette wrapped his arms around himself and tried to quell his shivering. The instructors were talking, but he wasn’t listening much. It was something about ‘frowners’ and ‘writing an essay.’ It was probably a barb at him. Yette hunched further over himself and waited for them to be done.

The floor of the forest was uneven under his feet as he ran, sword in hand. The boys ended up spread out in a line along the track, with the faster boys naturally gravitating towards the front. Yette was closer to the back, somewhere between being last and being in the middle. He had the endurance that came with hours of farmwork a day. His speed was rather lacking.

By the time he got back to the keep, the sun was well above the horizon. The trainees who hadn’t been running The Killer that morning were already out in the courtyard. Their swords reflected the sun’s light in a pretty way, but Yette was too tired and sore to even bother noticing the reflecting, beyond hissing and groaning when they shone into his eyes.

Breakfast was as early and tasteless as ever. The food actually wasn’t all that bad, but Yette was usually either too hungry or in too much of a bad mood to notice and care. He devoured what was in front of him and rose to his feet. Bathing would be happening later in the day, but he had training to get to first. He had been one of the later boys to return from The Killer, so he was already starting late today.

Yette headed for the main doors of the keep. During the day, they were flung open and held there by small boulders. The witchers had some set aside specifically for this purpose. Yette didn’t know where the rocks were kept when they weren’t in use. Probably outside, beside the doors.

He was following along a group of other boys when he grew restless. Some of the members of the group were mentioning some sort of upcoming test. Yette didn’t know about it. He’d mostly been tuning out his instructors, though. Once it had become clear how useless and inept he was, he hadn’t bothered to listen. It wasn’t like they were going to be helping him get better.

“What test?” He demanded, jogging a couple of steps to shake one of the boy’s arms. The boy turned around with an incredulous frown.

“Uh, the one Witcher Haldwund mentioned?” Yette blinked. “This morning? Before The Killer? Any of this ringing a bell?” Yette shook his head a little. The boy rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“Um, it’s about drowners,” one of the other boys cut in. Yette focused on him instead. He wasn’t being so mocking. Or at least, that was what Yette hoped. He didn’t know if what he was being told was bogus or not. “It’s in a couple of weeks. We’re supposed to research them and write a report, or something. And be able to answer some questions.” He shrugged. “Probably have to write because we’re not going to learn how to otherwise.” 

Yette gave a small nod and pushed past the group, which had kept walking. “Thanks,” he muttered. 

He couldn’t write. He’d never even been taught the basics. The only reason he could kind of read was that sometimes he had been sent to market, and he had to be able to read the information posted on the notice board or the scraps of paper with a list of things to buy that he had been given. 

This was going to be hell.

Heck. Hell? The witchers cursed freely in front of the trainees, but at the farm, some of their tamer curses would have gotten Yette’s mouth scrubbed out with soap. He was fairly certain that he wouldn’t get punished too badly for cursing here, though.

The drills that they were running that day went by fairly quickly. Worn out by running The Killer that morning, Yette tired sooner than usual. His guard dropped too easily, and though he was corrected several times, it didn’t stick. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

Maybe the nighttime ventures to the archery range were a bad idea. Particularly if the instructors already knew he was going and would show up uninvited. Like Witcher Remus had the previous night. 

By the time the boys were released for dinner, Yette was stumbling along in his exhaustion. He picked at his meal, not really interested in it. Maybe he should be going to the library. But maybe not. The table was missing a good portion of the other seven-year-olds, like they had already gone ahead and started on their research. Yette wasn’t interested in that just yet. He put his head down on the table instead. It was warm in here, and the table didn’t seem too uncomfortable right now. He pillowed his head on his arms and let his eyes fall closed.

He was roughly shaken awake sometime later. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but it must have been some time because the fire had burned low. “C’mon, Yette,” came the annoying voice of Eskel. “It’s late.” Yette groaned and slowly cracked his eyes open. It was colder in the hall now, with the fire having burned down some and most of the bodies in the hall gone.

Yette scowled, but allowed himself to be pried from the table without his meal. Eskel, since he was only one year older, also slept in the dormitory. Yette stumbled along with his not-quite friend, but probably ally.

When they reached his bunk, he collapsed. Despite having just slept earlier, he was still worn out. Eskel hovered nearby awkwardly, probably wanting to help. Yette didn’t need his help. “Go,” he grumbled as forcefully as he could. Eskel went.

Yette lay restless in bed for some time. He couldn’t have said how long. That was one more thing he was supposed to be learning, though. Among the sword lessons and the drills, there were lectures about various reagents, sessions where the younger two years were taught to read and write. Yette had been trying to skip most of them. One of the witchers, or sometimes another trainee, always found him and brought him back. Screw them and their enhanced senses.

After another hour or so by his reckoning, Yette threw his legs off of the bed and got to his feet. He snatched the thinnest blanket off his bed and wrapped himself in it. It was cold, but he didn’t need to be seen as weak by anyone who was still awake. It was spring.

Yette found himself wandering along the hallways, dodging a witcher or two who was patrolling. They probably knew that he was there, but he wanted to believe otherwise. His feet dropped him off in front of a large set of wooden doors. Yette scowled. He knew this place. He’d been here once or twice, first in order to show him where it was, and the next time to gather books to working on his literacy.

He pried one door open a little, just enough to slip through. The doors were supposed to be light, but they didn’t seem that way to him.

Inside, the library was still lit, though the lamps had been dimmed. Not all of them were lit. Yette looked around. 

The library had two levels, the second of which was a wide strip of balcony around the room below it. A set of stairs set to his left led up to it. Leading along his left to the opposite wall, but set on the first floor, were rows of bookshelves. They were messy, with books placed every which way along them and various sheets of paper hanging out of books and floating to the floor. To Yette’s right was a desk, then behind it a couple more bookshelves, then the wall. On the right half of the wall directly ahead of him were smaller desks and tables, intended for study purposes. The second floor hosted only bookshelves.

Yette wasn’t alone. There was a witcher seated at the main desk, writing calmly on sheets of paper, as if taking notes. At one of the tables, there was a boy with curly hair hunched over it, scribbling away. He had two books open beside him, and he kept flipping through them, as if searching for information.

At Yette’s entrance, both Master Zyrtas and Geralt looked over at him. Geralt returned to his scribbling, though he did take a moment to stretch and fix his posture. Yette stopped watching after that. He could feel Master Zyrtas’s eyes on him, studying him passively. Yette shot a glare in the Master’s direction. Then he stomped off to one of the bookshelves, not really knowing where he was going but deciding that he had better do something, anything, to stop being watched. He had to look stuff up about drowners, right? He could get a start on that.

Yette looked over the shelf in front of him and pulled out a book at random. He opened it to around the centre. It was on various herbs. This particular page was on some plant or other. Yette glanced at the caption, but he didn’t really recognise the words. Silverleaf, or something. That didn’t mean anything to him.

“The texts on drowners are three shelves further,” came Master Zyrtas’s soft voice, amusement clear in it. Yette scowled at him, but shut the book on herbs and stuffed it back on the shelf. He marched down to the shelf that had been pointed out to him. Master Zyrtas hadn’t been lying, from the looks of it. There was a small collection of texts about drowners. There were maybe twenty-five or thirty boys that were Yette’s age. Most of the collection had already been pillaged. Yette scowled. What was he supposed to do? He had this project too.

“D’you want help?” Geralt’s voice reached him, blunter than Master Zyrtas’s had been. Yette shot him a glare, too.

“I don’t need your help.” Geralt gave a small shrug and looked back at the paper he had been scribbling on.

“Suit yourself.” Yette scowled at him a moment longer, then went back to perusing the shelves. He grabbed a text at random, opened to yet another random page, and decided that it would work. There were illustrations in this one, and though the handwriting was neat but sort of elaborate, Yette thought that he would be able to make his way through reading it.

He carried the book over to one of the tables that Geralt wasn’t occupying. The boy didn’t even so much as spare him another glance. Yette looked curiously at Geralt’s paper as he passed, but all he saw was messy handwriting. The books were open to pages about Nekkers, though that didn’t mean much to Yette.

He took a seat and opened his own book to a page near the beginning. He had to flip back through several in order to reach the first. Then he immediately skipped through those. No one cared about who had written this, or how long it had taken them to gather the information, or about the new notice that some of the sections might be a little outdated. Yette skipped ahead to the interesting part, which was when the actual information started coming. He groaned as he saw it came with yet more warnings and footnotes.

The book was small, since it was just about one creature. It wasn’t a full bestiary, just a study about one particular monster. Still, it took Yette hours to get through, and he got bored a page or two in. Why should he care about where these monsters had come from? He just wanted to know how to fight them. 

Geralt left shortly before Yette finished the book, taking his things with him. Yette didn’t much care. He didn’t need the older boy. Besides, Geralt was barely older. He was the same age as Eskel, eight to Yette’s seven. How much more could he possibly know?

Yette got to his feet and carried his book on drowners over to the desk where Master Zyrtas was dozing. As Yette approached, his eyes opened smoothly, as if he had never been asleep at all. Yette set the book down on the desk. He took a deep breath. There was nothing to do but ask, if he wanted answers. He wasn’t a coward. “D’you have anything on swords?” Master Zyrtas frowned in thought for a moment.

“What are you looking for in particular? Welding a blade? Fighting with one? The history behind each one? I can go on.”

“Please don’t,” Yette muttered. A twitch of something that might have been amusement crossed Zyrtas’s face again. Yette scowled at that. Being laughed at was not something he appreciated. “And fighting.” Master Zyrtas frowned again and settled back in his chair. He steepled his fingers together in front of him.

“Yette,” he said gently. “The most successful way to learn a weapon is practising the technique correctly. Some old scroll won’t help you.”

“But-” Master Zyrtas held up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he said calmly. Yette gave a sulky nod. “There are people around you who can help you. Your instructors want to see you succeed. So do I.”

“It reflects badly on you if I don’t,” Yette pointed out. Master Zyrtas gave a sharp laugh.

“I suppose it does,” he admitted. “However, that doesn’t change my point. Seek out the people around you for help.” Yette shook his head a little and scuffed at the floor with his shoe.

“I can’t go to them for help,” he admitted quietly.

“Why not?” Master Zyrtas’s voice was soft as well, but loud enough for Yette to still hear. Yette wasn’t worried about speaking too quietly. Master Zyrtas was a full witcher with all his senses in working order.

“I-” He stopped, unsure if he really wanted to confide in the witcher. Master Zyrtas said nothing about the pause, but his expression looked encouraging. “Uh, I- I don’t want to be laughed at,” he said all the quieter, not looking at Master Zyrtas. The witcher leaned forwards over the desk, instead of leaning back and away from it.

“Yette,” he said gently. “There is nothing wrong with asking for help. Once you’re out on the Path, you will have only yourself to turn to for guidance. But for now, take advantage of the help those around you can give. The Path is a lonely one. There’s time for isolation later in life.” Yette stared sadly at the desk, thinking.

They stayed in that tableau for many minutes, until at last Yette spoke again. “Um.” Master Zyrtas met his eyes at the small noise, the witcher’s still encouraging. Yette cleared his throat lightly to help with the nerves. He wasn’t a coward wasn’t a coward wasn’t a coward. “Who- who would I ask?” A small, relieved-looking smile spread over Master Zyrtas’s face.

“You made the right choice,” he remarked kindly. He thought for a moment, then spoke again, this time more seriously. “You can ask me. Remus would be willing to help you with your archery. I noticed that your fingers are doing better today, as well as your form looked a little less terrible.”

“Hey!” Master Zyrtas gave a small shrug.

“I’m not one to sweeten my words. A word of advice, on that: don’t trust anyone who will tell you even a white lie. We make our living hunting monsters. A lie in the form of misinformation can get us killed. I am aware that I sound paranoid.” He paused, sounding saddened. “Perhaps I am.” His voice was softer.

Yette gave him a minute, shifting out of boredom and impatience, then cleared his throat again. “Can we start now? I don’t care about herbs and reading and writing. I want to know how to fight.” Master Zyrtas frowned at him, deeply this time.

“There is more to being a witcher than just combat,” he said gravely. Then he gave a sigh. “But yes, alright.”

“Really?” Yette looked at him hopefully. If he had been the type to pray, he would have been praying to every god out there that Master Zyrtas wasn’t playing some cruel trick on him. As it was, his excitement was a little anxious and a little wary.

“Yes, alright,” Master Zyrtas repeated, getting to his feet and walking around the desk. “Don’t make me regret this.” He stopped in front of Yette and took a breath. Yette shoved the book on drowners a little further from the edge of the desk, eyes shining with excitement.

“Your first lesson,” Master Zyrtas began.

“Yes?” Another breath. Yette could feel himself being studied by those golden eyes.

“Is on patience.” Yette groaned.

Despite Master Zrytas’s determination to see Yette become a witcher who was well-versed in all the areas he would need to know, Yette remained only interested in the combat. He could memorise facts about plants from dusty old tomes later. He was more worried about being smacked repeatedly into the dirt by the boys in his year right now.

Yette quickly learned that he wasn’t the only one getting extra help. In fact, it seemed more like he had been one of the only boys who  _ hadn’t _ . That just made him angry. He could have been far less useless for the past several weeks, but instead, he had toughed it out alone. Screw him.

The training left him exhausted and caused him to sleep soundly each night, but despite the aches and tiredness, Yette knew that it was beyond worth it. He was finally beginning to not injure himself so badly, and more importantly, he was starting to catch up with the other boys. They weren’t a fixed target, though, so catching up required a lot more effort than he had wanted.

There were drills from morning to night, along with the other regular physical training all the boys went through. Yette ached at the end of each day, bruises and blisters forming on his body. But he kept going. He was going to be better than the rest of them. He was. He had to be.

In the evenings, Yette would pour over old texts, growing bored quickly as the names of plants and creatures all blurred together. Master Zyrtas was unhelpful, only caring enough to step in and remind Yette to sit up straight. Yette hated it. His back did hurt a little less, though.

Sometimes Geralt was there. Sometimes other boys, from all years were. Yette didn’t care. The only reason he noticed their presences at all was because there was a race to get the books they all needed.

He learned to read and write. Only the former was any use to him, though. With his luck and skills, he wouldn’t even last a day on the Path. Not years. Maybe a week. And he wouldn’t be coming back. Once he was free of this keep, he was going to keep himself that way. He didn’t need the constant nagging of his instructors. He didn’t want to see the smug faces of the other boys. He could manage a winter out on the Path if he made it to then, Yette decided. He’d be a full witcher. He would have dealt with worse than some cold and some snow.

Summer came and went in a blur of sweat, heat, and drills. Yette fell asleep inside every time he cracked open one of the old tomes sitting in the library. The one thing they had going for them was that they weren’t dusty. Their frequent use saw to that. Hands both big and small alike were constantly pulling them off of the shelves and flipping through them, searching for that one piece of information they oh-so-desperately needed.

It was stupid, really. Why couldn’t they just ask each other? Yette was guilty of it too, though. Much as he hated it, he flipped through those books plenty, too.

Everything came to a head on the turn of fall. Yette was out on the archery range again, shooting at both straw target dummies and at trees. Once he had gotten good enough at basic archery, he could move on to shooting while moving. He was looking forwards to that. That was actually a useful skill. He couldn’t even win an archery competition, let alone defeat a monster.

It was the middle of the afternoon. There were recruits and witchers roaming all around Kaer Morhen. Not everyone who was outside was practising. Out of the corner of his eye, Yette could see Geralt and Eskel sitting together, shoulders pressed against each other, laughing quietly at some joke. It made a surge of white-hot anger go through Yette. He let go of his arrow so sharply that the string snapped back against his fingers.

“Ow!” He hissed. The string was fine, but there was going to be welts on his fingertips now. Those would limit how well he could shoot until they healed. Screw him. 

He pulled another arrow from the quiver that was strapped to his thigh anyways, though. Why stop? It was going to be painful no matter what he did, he might as well keep going. He shot another arrow, then a second, then a third. As he reached for his fourth, he was aware of a presence taking the spot one over from him. Yette glanced over, not stopping as he nocked his next arrow.

He could see curly golden-brown hair and green eyes. Geralt. Yette scowled and fire again, wincing when he made the same mistake as earlier and cut into his fingers.

Geralt nocked his arrow smoothly and easily, raising the bow into position as if he were gliding through water. Yette immediately hated the smug bastard, with his natural talent for swords, and his friend, and his easy smile, and the way he was encroaching on the one thing Yette actually had any scrap of skill at.

Angrily, Yette nocked his next arrow. He fired, taking a little more care that he didn’t beat up his fingers this time. His arrow went a little way to the left of where he was aiming. Yette growled under his breath and nocked the next. He could feel Geralt looking at him. The smug good-for-nothing archery thief was probably concerned, wasn’t he?

Yette shot again. This time, the arrow flew right past the straw dummy he was aiming for. Yette nocked a third. This time, when he drew the bow back until the fletching lightly touched his cheek, he took a breath, held it as he drew, then released half of it. He kept his limbs looser and his eyes on where he was aiming. His body made adjustments to the angle of the bow automatically. Yette fired, keeping his bow where it was and releasing the other half of his breath once the arrow had flown away. 

And this time, this time he hit exactly where he was aiming for. Still fuming, the momentary calm and excitement from firing gone, Yette lowered his bow and looked to Geralt, a challenge clear in his eyes. Geralt looked hesitant. Yette sneered at him before turning away and drawing another arrow. Geralt moved next, more calmly than Yette had been. 

Yette drew back his bow, anger beating in his breast again. The feathers of the fletching touched his cheek, then-

An arrow, shot from two spots down on the field, slammed into his target before he could fire. Yette relaxed the bowstring and whipped his head sideways. Geralt lowered his own bow, lifting his eyebrows slightly. Yette’s lips curled. 

“Oh no,” he murmured. “You are not winning this thing.” He didn’t know if Geralt could hear him, actually, but he didn’t much care. The smug, curly-haired bastard with the strong green eyes did  _ not _ get to beat him. Not at archery. Not at the one thing Yette enjoyed doing in this version of Hell that was set in the mountains.

He shot again. And again. He didn’t switch to the target that was between where he and Geralt were standing. Geralt fired at Yette’s once more, then tried to step over to take the spot beside him. Yette glared at him. Geralt moved back to his own spot and fired at the target there.

Yette’s arrows slammed into his target, again and again, a few of them more accurately than others. But he was doing much better than Geralt, he was pleased to note. Every time he glanced over, the curly-haired boy’s arrows were never quite in places important organs would be. Geralt missed his target entirely sometimes. Yette couldn’t contain a smirk, and he knew that Geralt had seen it.

Eventually, though, Yette’s fingers were bleeding again and he had run out of arrows. Geralt fired two more, then lowered his bow as well. Yette smirked at him, lifting his chin a little as he heard nervous applause. Geralt just frowned, the skin between his eyebrows furrowing. He went to go gather his arrows. Yette let himself bask in the acknowledgement of the fellow boys for a few more minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Master Zyrtas studying him. The Master then leaned down a little to whisper in Remus’s ear. Yette turned away after that.

Geralt got him back, though. It was a week and a half later. Yette was practising with a wooden training sword against one of the other boys. He parried clumsily, then got a thrust in. The other boy made a sound of pain and tried to block. Yette lifted his sword above his head, preparing to slam his blade down hard onto the other boy. Instead, he got jabbed in the gut with the point of his foe’s training sword.

The wind got knocked out of him. Yette scowled at the other boy, who took a nervous step back. He hefted his sword in front of him, moving his grip around as he licked his lips out of fear. Yette kept his scowl in place. “Had enough?”

Someone cleared his throat. Yette could say ‘he,’ because there were only men and boys around the keep. Witchers were never girls. Something about some Trials not being suited for them, or whatever. Yette didn’t know the details. He didn’t even know what the Trials were beyond them being some sort of test he was going to have to pass if he wanted to become a full witcher.

He whirled around and found himself staring into strong green eyes that mirth sparkled in the sunlight. Yette’s sparring partner quickly lowered his sword. “You wanna take him, Geralt?” Geralt tipped his head a little in thought, a habit that Yette found endlessly annoying. Why couldn’t he just keep his head straight?

“Sure,” Geralt replied easily after a moment. He looked to Yette, eyes sparkling with mirth now. He raised one eyebrow a little. Yette noticed it was the same colour as his hair. “If you’ll have me?”

Yette scowled at him and gave an angry shrug. Geralt replied by easily stepping into the place that the seven-year-old had occupied. He held his sword out in front of him, both hands gripping the hilt like they were supposed to do. It was a stronger grip, or something. Yette held his sword in just his right hand, and out to his side. He snarled and dropped into something closer than a crouch. 

Geralt fought well. Really well. Yette might have been overestimating his own abilities. His practise sword was knocked from his hand after only a couple of blows. Geralt paused, withdrawing.

“What?” Yette demanded. Geralt nodded at the dropped sword. Yette shot the older boy a glare, but he obeyed. He would have picked it up himself, but now it looked like he was following orders.

Their not-quite-dance started again. Yette had his knuckles rapped and his guard passed a couple of times. Geralt was quick and light on his feet, even at only eight. Yette could see why Eskel had called him a natural. The wooden sword in Geralt’s hand seemed to dance, unlike Yette’s which remained just a wooden stick that could hit things.

At last, Yette ended up kneeling on the ground, the small stones scattered into the dirt digging painfully into his knees. He hissed and tried to push himself up, but the tip of a wooden blade pushed against his throat. It was pushed a little too hard, and Yette had to lean back some to avoid the pressure on his throat choking him.

“Do you yield?” Came Geralt’s melodious voice. Yette hated that voice. It was a gorgeous voice, and he was pretty sure the boy could sing, too. He had everything. Talent. In several fields, not just in swords. He had a friend, maybe more. He was friendly with the instructors. He was a year older than Yette and seemed infinitely wise for it. 

Yette hated him. 

He choked on the words as they tried to come up his throat. One word. He just had to let one word escape his lips, then the humiliation of this scene could be over. A small crowd had gathered around to watch Geralt and Yette spar. The boy Yette had been fighting in the first place was there, too.

Yette just sneered at Geralt. He tried to get back to his feet, but the sword pressed against his throat a little harder. “Yette,” Geralt hissed out of the corner of his mouth. He glanced around at the crowd watching them. “Just yield already.” Yette shook his head as best he was able.

“Never,” he hissed back. “Not to you, and not to anyone else, either.” Someone sniggered. Yette scowled, his face hot. 

He was saved by Eskel. Not that he needed saving, that was. But Eskel pushed his way through the gaggle of boys and pushed Geralt back by the shoulder. One of the instructors, Marisis followed. He began shooing away the small crowd that had formed.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “Entertainment’s over.” He pushed the backs of a couple of boys, getting them moving. 

Eskel held a hand out to Yette. Yette smacked it away and rose to his feet himself, trembling with anger and humiliation. “I didn’t need your help,” he snapped. Geralt lowered his sword in confusion, the point of it touching the ground now.

“Yette, I-”

“Go away!” Yette turned around and ran, shoving past the boys that Witcher Marisis had gotten to leave. Behind him, he could hear Eskel starting to comfort Geralt.

Yette hightailed it back inside, abandoning his sword to the other boys. It was fine. He didn’t need it. He didn’t. He threw himself down onto his bunk, stomach down, head pillowed on his arms. It was fine. He didn’t need it or them.

He wanted to go home. He pulled his legs up under him, then flopped onto his side. His face was wet with tears. He wanted to go home. He just wanted to go home, and be home, and not have to be here at Kaer Morhen anymore. Here was filled with humiliation and swords. The farm just had farmwork and beatings. Yette had gotten enough bruises that it had evened out.

“I want to go home,” he choked out into the empty room. “Just let me go.” His shoulders shook harder and he curled tighter around himself. The tears fell faster as he spoke, hot, salty liquid carving tracks down his cheeks.

It didn’t stop there, though. Oh no. Yette was not that fortunate. Winter was coming now, and that meant that soon, the keep would be flooded with more witchers. They had been on the Path all year. According to some of the boys who were a little older, read: those who were Eskel and Geralt’s age, this was the opportunity to ask to hear their stories. The witchers who remained at the keep to teach year-round knew their stuff, but according to the other boys, the ones who roamed the Path had the sharpest skills. It made sense, Yette supposed.

He, however, had zero intentions of having to talk to anyone all winter, though. He didn’t care. He didn’t have to talk to anyone if he didn’t want to. Yette roamed the keep instead. He had figured out where some of the unused rooms were, and those were where he decided to take up residence. 

The door of one of his favourites turned more easily than usual today. The snow had been falling lightly for weeks, but over the past couple of days, it had been getting heavier. The witchers who were returning from the Path before the route up the mountains got cut off were starting to arrive more frequently now.

Yette entered the room, and stopped immediately, frowning. There were embers of a fire in the grate, and the room was still worn. Someone’s gear was spread out over the bed and the windowsill. There were a couple of new books on the shelves. Yette swallowed hard. This room wasn’t unused, was it?

Heavy footsteps behind him confirmed his suspicions. “Gonna have to invest in a proper lock, aren’t I, boy?” Yette spun around. A witcher was lounging in the doorway. The bridge of his nose was crossed with scars, and he had a scarred nick on his chin as well. His dark brown hair was shaggy but still short. He had no beard. And like all of the witchers, he was powerfully built. 

Yette wanted to take a step back, but instead, he took two forwards. “I was just leaving,” he muttered. He had learned over the past three seasons that the witchers could tell when he was lying. He didn’t know how yet, they’d never bothered to tell him, but he knew that they could.

“You were,” a rough voice agreed. “Now get the hell out of my room. Don’t let me catch you here again…” He waited for Yette’s name. Yette gave it up in a reluctant grumble.

“Yette.”

“Yette. And don’t you be haunting this place while I’m gone.” He moved fluidly out of the doorway, annoyingly similar to how Geralt moved. Yette squeezed past him. The door was slammed once he was out of the room. Yette groaned quietly and kept walking, determined to put as much space as possible between himself and the witcher.

This winter was going to suck. When he turned a corner and saw a small group of witchers he didn’t recognise talking with some of the other boys, Geralt among them, he knew that it was going to suck even more. Yette gave a small groan and turned back around. Maybe he could find solace in the library, or something.


End file.
